


Gravestone Conversations

by ChipsintheChapel



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, Heartwarming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChipsintheChapel/pseuds/ChipsintheChapel
Summary: Delia goes in search of solace after her Mam dies, and finds far more than she ever expected.
Relationships: Delia Busby & Patsy Mount, Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 20
Kudos: 54





	Gravestone Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> At the cusp of this new year, I know it's important to remember joys, no matter how small, that the past year has given us. But 2020 has been a year of profound and incredible grief, both collectively and personally in people’s lives, and that also feels important to acknowledge. This story is my attempt to honor that grief; to give it its space. And to remind myself that you don’t have to ignore darkness to find light.

Even years later, Delia and Patsy would never tell the true story of how they’d met. They would make up a suitable replacement...crossed paths, started conversations, growing romance...to assuage the curiosities of friends and family. But the real story, that was just for them. Well, them and the gravestones. 

She knew they hadn’t officially met until later, but for Delia the true story started the spring after her Mam’s death. 

The death, in the dead of winter at the end of a long illness, had been both expected and sudden, and while she’d attended the funeral in Wales, and seen that her Tad was cared for by her siblings, Delia still felt...adrift. It was an unexpected response, as she and her Mam had had a complicated and sometimes strained relationship, though Delia supposed maybe that was why. She’d always hoped, somehow, that they would grow closer. That their relationship would mellow into something sustaining and grounding. But now it never could.

The idea had come to her on a beautiful March day. On the phone, her brother had mentioned visiting their Mam’s grave. After months of brooding, Delia felt an unexpected jolt of jealousy. That he had a solid place to feel her presence. That he could go and chat with her whenever he wanted.

Making herself a cup of tea later that day, she thought that perhaps she could find a way of having that constancy in London. Of creating a place that could be hers to commune with...well, she wasn’t sure what. But maybe with something. And so, in what she would later recognize as a search for closure, she looked up local cemeteries and set out. 

She found what she was looking for in a small churchyard just far enough from her flat to avoid people she knew, but close enough to walk to. It was a quiet place. Peaceful, with dappled light and the smell of new spring growth. The green alone was calming. 

She avoided the newer grave sites or those that were lovingly tended or festooned with flowers. She never intended to latch onto the grief of others. Instead, she wandered the plots until, nestled under a tree against the back wall, she came upon a gravestone that was almost grown over with ivy despite being only about twenty years old. Claire Mount. She’d only been thirty-four when she’d died, and Delia was about to look for someone closer in age to her Mam when she saw the small stone next to it. Elisabeth Mount. She’d died at only six, a few days after Claire. 

Pulling aside the ivy just enough to see Loving Mother engraved in the stone, Delia had felt a sudden sense of certainty wash over her. Claire had been a Mam too. A Mam whose child had missed her, even if only for a few days. Surely, she would understand. 

There was a small bench near the graves and, that first day, Delia had sat and awkwardly explained the situation. Had asked Claire if it was alright if she spoke to her. If perhaps Claire could relay the messages to her own Mam. The gravestone hadn’t answered, but Delia had still felt better, and on her walk home she felt a bit closer to whatever it was she’d been searching for. 

She next visited two weeks later, this time brushing the ivy off of the face of the gravestone before settling onto the bench and talking about her week. She told Claire her frustrations. She told Claire about her victories. She told Claire she missed her Mam. She asked Claire to tell her Mam everything. 

And so, a routine began. Every fortnight, rain or shine, she would visit. She would share stories of her life. She would talk through her problems. And somehow, even though she knew she was sitting alone talking to a slab of marble in an abandoned churchyard, sometimes she would almost think she could hear the gravestone talking back to her. Assuaging her worries. Giving her advice. And she would feel closer to her Mam. 

She also began, slowly, to clean up the graves...cutting back the ivy, picking off the suckers, wiping off the mould. And, by late June, when both Claire and Elizabeth’s gravestones sparkled as if they were new, she began to bring flowers. She didn’t know anything about the Mounts...she’d purposefully avoided any research...and so brought daffodils, her Mam’s favourite, trusting that Claire would understand.

And while several of the other graves were lovingly tended, from March through November, she never saw another living soul in the churchyard. That, however, would change in December. 

For the rest of her life, it would never cease to amuse Delia that the first time she saw Patsy, a woman who would bring such boundless joy and comfort to her life, was such an unwelcome surprise. She’d arrived at the churchyard on a frigid December morning to see a tall redhead standing in front of Claire’s grave. Feeling a confusing combination of possessiveness and guilt, she’d ducked behind a tree to take in the interloper. The woman looked slightly bedraggled and was, perplexingly, holding a suitcase, and Delia felt her curiosity grow. From her angle, she couldn’t see the redhead’s face, but could see the tension and uncertainty in her bearing. 

Delia watched as the woman placed the suitcase gently on the ground and leaned down to pick up the remains of one of the daffodils Delia had brought on her last visit. It largely disintegrated as it was lifted off the ground, and yet she stood, turning what remained of it round and round in her hand, her head cocked to the side. 

Unsure of who this woman was, but certain that she wouldn’t appreciate Delia’s presence, Delia backed away. After scurrying out to the street, she made her way to a small cafe where she found a table with a clear view of the churchyard entrance. The woman didn’t stay long...she hadn’t been appropriately dressed for the cold...and once Delia was certain she wasn’t coming back, she went to visit the graves. 

She shared her week as she always did, but this time, she also asked Claire all of her questions. Who was that woman? Would she be visiting frequently? Would she be angry at Delia? Should Delia stop coming? 

The gravestone hadn’t answered. 

Two weeks later, Delia had wavered. The arrival of someone who might have known Claire, have cared about the living Claire, was something she’d never expected. A part of her felt she should stop going and leave Claire to those who’d known her. But another part knew that, emotionally, that just wasn’t something she could do. The anniversary of her Mam’s death was approaching, and Delia couldn’t leave Claire forever without saying goodbye. Without asking Claire to explain to her Mam what had happened. 

And so she went. 

She’d scanned the street around the entrance and the courtyard itself and, seeing no sign of the redhead, she’d made her way to Claire’s gravestone, leaning over to place the daffodils gently on the ground. She’d heard the soft crunch of footsteps in the frost before she’d even stood up straight. Delia supposed that, deep down, she’d known that the redhead would be there. Later, she would wonder if, subconsciously, that’s why she had come.

Taking a deep breath, she turned, prepared to face anger and recrimination. Instead, the blue eyes that met hers held uncertainty and curiosity. And a grief that Delia recognized from staring at her own reflection. 

She felt frozen to the spot, simply staring at the woman, whose height and red hair, which flowed out from under a winter hat, assured Delia she was the same woman she’d seen a fortnight ago. She was younger than Delia had expected...right about Delia’s age. Delia wondered what you were supposed to say when approached by someone who’d known the person in the grave you’d been visiting religiously for the better part of a year. 

Calmly, the woman pointed at the gravestones. 

‘Are you the one who’s been keeping them tended?’ 

Her voice was low and rich and the sharp RP of her accent caught Delia off guard, though it shouldn’t have. Burial in a churchyard in London would be reserved for the elite.

Delia nodded. 

The woman eyed her for a moment before taking a small breath, as if to steel herself, ‘Was my father paying you?’ 

It was such a wildly unanticipated question that Delia was sure she hadn’t heard correctly, ‘What?’ 

‘My father. Was he paying you to keep the graves tended?’ 

Delia shook her head, ‘No. I’m sorry. I didn’t...I didn’t know anyone would be coming. They looked so abandoned.’ 

The woman’s brow creased in confusion, ‘He didn’t…’ She trailed off and was quiet for a long time before speaking again, her voice much smaller than it had been before, ‘They looked abandoned?’ 

There was something in the sudden look of defeat in the woman’s eyes that made Delia change her original plan of apology and flight. That prevented her, despite her better judgement, from simply letting the woman be. She noticed that the woman seemed to be shivering.

‘Look, I know this is all very strange, but would you like to go somewhere warmer where I can explain?’ 

And so they’d ended up at the same cafe table where Delia had set up two weeks before, the woman slowly sipping her tea as Delia explained. How her Mam had died. How she’d come looking for something. How she’d found it there in that small churchyard. How she was sorry to have intruded on the life of a living person. How that had never been her intention. 

The entire time, the woman’s face had remained unreadable, her eyes trained away from Delia’s to the swirling tea in her cup. 

There was a long moment of silence when Delia had finished, before the woman gently set down her cup. 

‘So you just...sit and talk?’ The woman sounded somewhere between sceptical and curious.

Delia nodded. 

The woman had pursed her lips as if she was considering something she was uncertain of. Finally, she released a little huff of air and gave an infinitesimal nod, apparently having reached a decision. Her eyes, when they darted up to meet Delia were filled with uncertainty and longing and hope. 

‘Can I...do you mind if I join you? Today? While you talk?’ 

It hadn’t been the reaction she’d expected, but Delia smiled warmly, and gave a small nod. 

‘Of course.’ 

They gathered up their coats and made their way to the bench, where Delia sat and talked to the gravestone. She held back a bit on delving too deeply into her emotions, aware that there was a stranger there. But it still felt nice to have this opportunity she hadn’t been sure she was going to get, and she was sure Claire understood.

When she’d finished, they both sat on the bench for several long, quiet moments before Delia knelt to re-arrange the daffodils slightly, taking a moment to whisper to Claire that, this time, someone was here just for her. She’d straightened to see the redhead standing, looking contemplatively at the graves. 

‘Does she...do you ever hear anything back?’

Delia cocked her head to the side and decided that this situation was already strange enough, honesty wouldn’t hurt. 

‘I know it seems impossible, but sometimes. Sometimes it feels like it.’ 

The redhead had given a little nod and then they’d made their way to the entrance, standing a bit awkwardly before the woman spoke again. 

‘Thank you. For letting me join you. I know it’s time that’s important to you.’ 

Delia smiled at the sincerity in the woman’s voice, ‘No, thank _you_. I know it’s strange, that I come at all.’ 

‘It’s not,’ the force in the woman’s voice startled Delia. The woman paused and took a breath before continuing, ‘I don’t think it’s strange at all.’ 

Delia smiled and gave a small nod. 

She was about the turn to go when the woman, fidgeting slightly, cleared her throat, ‘Do you...do you mind if I join you again next time?’ 

‘I don’t mind at all,’ given how important her time in the small cemetery was to her, Delia had been surprised by how much she’d meant it, ‘I come every fortnight.’ 

The woman had nodded, looking somehow more at peace than she had a moment before, ‘One last thing, if I may ask, why daffodils?’ 

‘They were my Mam’s favourite.’ 

The woman had given an understanding nod before looking as if she would turn to go. 

‘I’m Delia, by the way.’ 

She’d received a soft smile in return, ‘I’m Patsy.’ 

Later, Delia would learn that Claire and Elisabeth were Patsy’s mother and sister. That they had died when she was ten. That Patsy had never had the courage to visit their gravestones before. That her father had recently died in Hong Kong, and that Patsy had first come to the churchyard directly from her return flight after his funeral. That she’d come looking for the same connection Delia had eight months before. That, in many ways, Patsy had always been searching for that connection. 

But on that first day, all Delia had known was that the woman’s name was Patsy and that, in some small way, Delia had helped her. And in that moment, that had been enough. 

Two weeks later, Patsy had come with pink carnations, which joined the yellow daffodils to form an incongruous burst of spring colour on the frosty ground. 

That second meeting, Patsy had again stayed silent, but she’d seemed more relaxed, and Delia, in turn, had felt more comfortable with her presence. Afterwards, Patsy had asked if she could join Delia again and Delia had been surprised at how pleased she’d felt that Patsy seemed to find the time helpful. And she’d also been shocked at how nice it felt to have someone else there, sharing the space, even silently. A living person to bear witness. 

And so a new routine had developed. Meeting every fortnight on the small bench. Daffodils and carnations intertwined on the greening grass. Speaking to the gravestones, but never to each other. Together, but also alone. 

As the years passed, some parts of those early months would fade from Delia’s memory, their images blurring over time until they were lost forever, replaced by new adventures and landmarks and firsts. But there were some that would stay with Delia forever, still sharp in her mind after years of distance. 

She remembered the first time Patsy had spoken to the gravestones, her voice trembling slightly as she’d told Claire she’d decided to train as a midwife. The first time she’d reached out through the chilly air to take Patsy’s hand, when Patsy told Claire about a stillbirth she’d witnessed during training. The first time Patsy had nervously asked if perhaps Delia would like to go and have some tea together after their shared time in the churchyard, rather than just heading straight home. 

She remembered those first few awkward tea dates, fumbling to get to know how to interact with each other without the mediating influence of the gravestones; to learn to be light when their knowledge of each other ran so deep. They had muddled through, finding that laughter could come as easily as shared silence. That their connection had room for adventure as well as introspection. 

And most of all, Delia remembered the first time she’d broken their unspoken rule, and responded to Patsy there by the gravestones. Later, Patsy would tell her she’d been waiting for that moment. That despite her best efforts and faith and patience, the gravestones had remained stubbornly silent for her. That she’d been longing for Delia to provide that advice, that assurance, that comfort, but hadn’t known how to ask. 

But Delia hadn’t known all of that on the late summer day when she’d taken that first terrifying leap. When she’d been so moved by Patsy’s pain and uncertainty that she’d reached out and taken her hand and assured her that she was doing her best. That she was a good nurse. That she didn’t have to go through her troubles alone. 

It would always amaze Delia how smoothly they’d shifted from talking to the gravestones to talking to each other. To giving each other advice. To supporting each other. They would sit on the bench in the churchyard and share their joys and talk through their problems, revelling in finally being fully together.

It would also astound Delia, given the months that it had taken them to get to that point, how quickly things moved after that. First kisses, first flat together, first vacation. They fit together so seamlessly, after spending months learning the grooves of each other’s souls. 

As they settled into their lives together, and the busyness of two full lives joined caught up with them, trips to the churchyard began to fall by the wayside. They were replaced by what they came to call gravestone conversations. Two words that would signal a need to share, to process, to block everything else out and centre each other as they snuggled on the sofa in their warm, cheery flat.

Delia still kept up her visits, though not with nearly the same frequency as before. To keep the plots tended. To feel the connection to her Mam. To make sure that, especially when the weather turned a bit chilly, there were daffodils to brighten their corner of the churchyard. 

As time passed, Patsy accompanied Delia to the churchyard less and less. She’d been carrying Claire and Elizabeth with her for so long that she hadn’t needed the physical space to feel their presence. The gravestones had never answered her. Instead, she’d found the connection she’d been searching for in Delia, who’d taught her to open up to her feelings, to share her grief, to accept support. 

But once a year, around the anniversary of Delia’s Mam’s death, they would visit together, daffodils and carnations intertwined once more. They’d share the news of their years...of new homes and marriage and births. And later, of grandchildren and retirement and the passing of friends. 

And at the end of each visit, Delia would kneel down to adjust the bright daffodils and carnations at the foot of the gravestones, leaning forward to whisper a quiet thanks to Claire, for being there for her, for connecting her with her Mam, and for teaching her that even from the depths of grief, it is possible for something to bloom.

**Author's Note:**

> As we end this difficult year and begin a new one that promises to carry darkness of its own, I hope that you are staying well, I hope that you are staying safe, and I hope, above all, that you know that you are not alone.


End file.
